Feral
by Built on the Horizon
Summary: After being captured on what looked like an abandoned planet, Jim's rescued, wild and animalistic. What was months for the crew was years alone for Jim.
1. Chapter 1

**_Feral_**

'Damn it, Uhura, people don't go missing, other people just stop looking for them!'

Lesser officers would have reprimanded McCoy for causing a scene on the bridge, but every officer knew exactly how he was feeling. The doctor was vocalising the thought they had held onto for the past two weeks.

McCoy had backed up against a wall, his arms crossed and seething furiously, glaring at the still, blue-clad figure seated in the Captain's chair.

Uhura's eyes were glistening with unshed tears as she stepped closer to McCoy.

'It's impossible to trace the transmission's origin.' She said, forcing as much calm into her voice as she could. 'We haven't picked up his tracking signal or rescue code. The bio-scanners don't register anything human on the planet's surface.'

'Well, maybe they've taken him somewhere. Underground, another planet, something.' McCoy said desperately.

'Starfleet Command has ordered us to abandon rescue operations.' Spock reiterated quietly. The words hung heavily in the air. 'That mission will be given to the _USS Endeavour_.'

'So we're just going to pretend this all didn't happen?' McCoy demanded. 'That Jim's communicator wasn't transmitting his screams for a good half an hour before we lost the signal?' he gestured angrily, a fist clenched tightly by his side. 'Jim is out there somewhere, and every second we waste-'

'It has been _two weeks_, doctor.' Spock's voice was commanding and stilled him quickly. 'If you have any information that could lead to the rescue of the Captain, please inform us.' At any other moment, McCoy would have accused the Vulcan of being an insensitive bastard, but right now, he was almost pleading, hoping.

McCoy relented, stepping back and scowling at the floor.

Uhura moved closer and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to respond. Spock straightened in the command chair, but nodded her to continue.

'I'm sorry.' She whispered, her hand running up to rub the back of his neck. She pulled him into an embrace which he reluctantly reciprocated.

'I'm so sorry, Bones, I-'

McCoy sharply grabbed her wrist. He pulled her hand down from the side of his face and stepped back.

'Don't call me that.' He said scathingly. 'No one here calls me that.'

It was a demand and a threat. It was a fact.

The brutal truth of the statement caused Uhura's tears to fall.

* * *

_**Two months and two weeks later. Three months after loss of contact, **_Enterprise_**-time.**_

_**The planet's surface. Lieutenant Commander Birkson of the **_USS Endeavour.

Lieutenant Commander Birkson led his team through the thick bush, phasers warily scanning the area ahead, but no real threat detected.

A deep growl came from somewhere deep within the overhanging flora and Birkson spun, phaser trained on the shifting bush.

With a roar, a figure charged from the cover the plants provided it. A solid body landed on Birkson, knocking him to the ground. The phaser flew from his hand and landed in the mud.

Strangely, a fist collided with his jaw and he was sure he felt something break. Dazed, Birkson rolled his head up to see whatever was attacking him.

It was a man, shaggy hair and hardly clothed. The man roared again while Birkson attempted to roll free. He planned his move and grabbed the savage's wrist, beginning to flip him in a basic combat move.

The savage moved first, his legs gripping Birkson around the chest and spinning so he was pinned. The man's fists were raised. The counter-defensive position.

The blast of the phaser on stun rocked the man pinning Birkson. He slumped and slid to the side, landing heavily in the mud.

'Commander!' an Ensign called, shoving the phaser into the holster and helping him up. Birkson rolled free and stood, staring at his attacker.

His hair was raggard, looking like it was hacked off with a knife, the beard maintained similarly. The man shivered as rain began to fall in the dense forest, striking the leaves, mud and bare skin.

His chest was bare save for a strip of gold material hanging diagonally across him, a knife tied into the familiar coloured material. The black pants were faded and ripped, the dark, crusted stain of blood in far too many places.

The only other remnant of clothing on him was a black cuff from a Starfleet uniform on his left wrist, the gold stripes indicating a rank of captain.

Birkson flicked open his communicator.

'Birkson to _Endeavour_, patch a comm through to Captain Spock on the _Enterprise_. We found him.'

* * *

**_Yay! Another Star Trek fic! Seriously though, guys. Star Trek ate my brain._**

**_Please tell me what you think! Theories, ideas, prompts and critisism are all greatly appreciated!_**

**_Please review!_**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Spock was sitting on the edge of the Captain's chair, either because he was speaking in detail to Chekov or because he never felt comfortable enough to claim the whole chair as his. Chekov was explaining the difficulty he was having navigating through an asteroid belt some two days away.

'Have you decided on a viable secondary option?' Spock asked.

'Yes, Keptain.' The rank was said easily after three months, if not a little reluctantly. 'I have already programmed a subroutine that will bypass the star system altogether.'

Behind them, Uhura held a hand to her earpiece; looping the transmission to be sure she decoded it correctly.

'Captain…' she said quietly, her voice weak.

'How much strain will that place on the engines?'

'That is the worry, if our dilithium reserves drop below the specified level…'

'Captain.' She repeated.

'I understand, Ensign, thank you.' Spock straightened and frowned. 'Let me see your current course through the belt.'

'Aye, Captain.'

Uhura stood, her voice finally firm and loud.

'Spock.'

He turned to her, trying to decipher the emotion in her voice.

Uhura held out her earpiece, her hand trembling slightly.

'It's a transmission from the _Endeavour_.' She said.

Spock stood swiftly and was at her side within moments, gently taking the earpiece from her and listening for himself. The entire bridge noticed the shift in mood and watched their interaction. Only Chekov dared to hope.

Uhura stood close to Spock, their sides pressing together. 'Is it true?' she asked, her voice so small only he could hear it. 'After all this time, did they really…?'

His hand came to rest on her hip, a comforting pressure that wasn't freely given. Spock indulged in her presence for a moment before he snapped ramrod straight and turned to the rest of the bridge.

'Mr Chekov, are you able to plot a course based on a transmission's origins?' He asked smoothly.

Chekov looked confused for a moment. 'Aye, I can do that.'

'Ladies and gentlemen, Lieutenant Uhura picked up a communication from the _U.S.S. Endeavour_.' Spock announced. 'They have located Captain Kirk.'

The last two words sounded so right together, absent for so long. For the past three months, those words were never heard, unless on a report, with _missing, presumed dead_ following them.

Chekov's course plotting set new records that day.

* * *

Uhura ran down to the Medical Bay, desperately trying to get there personally before the message reached it eventually.

Sprawled in his office chair, looking slightly more dishevelled than usual, McCoy slumped a head in one hand and scrolled through a PADD with the other. Uhura swept into his office without even pausing at the door.

Startled, he looked up at her, the constant frown creasing his forehead.

'They found him.' She said breathlessly. That was all she needed to say.

* * *

Through some bizarre lining up of shifts, Scotty was the only one available to assist the shuttle in touching down in the bowels of the ship. The details from Lieutenant Birkman had been sketchy at best, and he'd requested minimal personnel present for the landing.

Scotty single-handedly lowered the shields, opened the blast doors to allow the shuttle entrance and sealing the ship back up so he could run to the landing bay.

Very enthusiastically, Scotty waved them down to the vacant platform. He noticed how beaten up the small shuttle was, deep scratches and gouges running along its sides and half a branch caught in its landing mechanisms.

Briefly, Scotty mused that nothing left that planet without going a little wild.

He was about to activate the outside controls for the rear compartment when the pilot slid out of the cockpit.

'Wait!' Lieutenant Commander Birkman ordered. Scotty froze on the spot, his hand inches away from the controls.

'Lieutenant…' Scotty said warily. It had been three months since he last saw Captain Kirk, and while he didn't feel the loss as much as others on this ship, there wasn't quite someone who understood the brash Scotsman as Jim did.

Birkson tossed a phaser at Scotty, another already in his hands. He caught it, staring at it dumbly for a moment. It was set on stun.

'What is this for?' Scotty demanded.

'He regained consciousness during the flight over.' Birkson said gruffly.

Almost on cue, a dull thud came from inside the shuttle. The metal of its hull vibrated as a heavy weight was thrown repeatedly against it.

Scotty jerked violently, staring at the shuttle in horror. 'What the hell was that?'

'That is your _beloved_ captain.' Birkson practically spat the word. 'Get ready.' He reached over and tapped at the controls. The rear compartment's doors slid open.

James T. Kirk attacked instantly. He roared and hissed, brandishing a crudely made knife as he threw himself down the ramp towards Scotty.

'Captain Kirk!' Scotty yelled, diving out of the way.

Birkson didn't hesitate as Jim rounded on him and tightened his grip on the handle of the knife. Brikson fired his phaser, the energy pulse landing on Jim's shoulder.

Jim's legs buckled underneath him and Scotty moved towards him to catch him under the arms before lowering him to the ground slowly.

'What did you do?' Scotty thundered, the small man trying to command as much authority as he could.

'You're welcome.' Birkson answered dryly.

Scotty looked at him, disgusted. His eyes dropped to the crumpled form of his captain.

Jim was barely recognizable. The ratty hair and beard aged the man well past his twenty-six years. His bare chest was littered with scars, some ancient and some fresh, small cuts and scratches were spread across his arms and shoulders, no doubt from running through the thick bush of the planet he had come from.

The phaser hadn't stunned him completely; Jim twitched and curled up into himself, his face breaking out in a sweat.

'Kirk.' Scotty muttered, dropping down and placing a hand on the Captain's bare shoulder.

Jim whimpered. His whole body shook and he rolled to the side, away from the touch.

Birkson fine tuned the phaser, lowering its potency and fired again, the energy striking Jim's chest and he went limp.

Birkson grabbed Jim's wrist, hauling him up and slinging the arm across his shoulders. Scotty moved to help, propping the other side of him up on his shoulder. Jim's bare and toughened feet dragged against the floor.

'He didn't recognize me.' Scotty said quietly, staring at the unconscious captain as his head lolled with each step. 'How the hell does that happen in three months?'

Nothing left that planet without going a little wild.

* * *

**Yay for more crew reactions! Don't worry, we'll be seeing a lot, a _lot_ more Feral!Jim in the future, there's no need to worry.**

**Please please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Everyone on the ship was on edge from the moment they dropped out of warp, but no one more so than the staff in Sickbay.

McCoy fumbled with the medical equipment and swore more than usual. A lesser head nurse would have ordered McCoy back to his quarters, but not even Nurse Chapel could give the order. When the Captain did make it aboard the _Enterprise_, the Sickbay will be the first place he goes to, for one of two reasons. Either because he needed to find his 'Bones' or because he was wounded.

Either way, Sickbay needed McCoy.

A message beeped through to Christine's PADD and she scanned it quickly.

'Doctor McCoy.' Her voice rang out sharply and he looked up from his dermal regenerator and medkit. 'Engineer Scott just sent word ahead. They're bringing… he's coming straight here.'

'Anyone who's not skeleton crew or bleeding out, get out of my sickbay.' McCoy barked.

He needn't have bothered. The sickbay was already mostly empty. The only patients, with minor injuries, had already been transferred to the secondary infirmary on deck 6. By all rights, the Medical Bay had already been reserved for their Captain.

McCoy's hands shook as he packed up his medkit and slung a satchel onto his shoulder, as if he was ready to run out and meet them halfway and was just waiting for the order.

The doors slid open and McCoy was there in an instant. Jim was limip and slung between the engineer and Lieutenant Commander, his head lolled forward onto his chest.

'Jim.' McCoy choked out, cradling his head carefully. With the pad of his thumbs, he lifted Jim's eyelids, getting no reaction from the unconscious man.

'What happened?' McCoy demanded, dragging his hands back, detaching himself from the moment so he could do his job.

'Commander Birkson over there decided to get a little phaser-happy.' Scotty said, not even bothering to disguise his anger.

Birkson was nonplussed. 'You'll understand when he wakes up. Doctor, where are your quarantine rooms?'

Without a word, McCoy transferred the responsibility of carrying Jim from Birkson to his own shoulders, not trusting the stranger. He didn't fail to notice the fact that he could see each and every rib under the scarred skin. Jim was unnaturally light as the two of them carried him to the steel-walled isolation room.

'You're going to need to clear out everything.' Birkson ordered, gesturing at the biobed and medical equipment. McCoy didn't answer; he was carefully laying Jim down on the narrow bed, so Chapel stepped in.

'Commander Birkson,' she began, with an air of civility, 'that equipment is essential for providing medical care for Captain Kirk. I don't know how things work in your quadrant of the galaxy, but on this ship, we take care of our patients.'

'Excuse me, _nurse_.' Birkson practically sneered the title. 'Perhaps you should be aware that I was the one who discovered your so-called Captain and received a broken jaw for my efforts. So if you had any sense at all, you'd follow my instructions and-'

Something inside McCoy snapped. Maybe it was the sight of his best friend shivering and scarred, or the harsh words of the Lieutenant he was dimly registering, but something made McCoy draw to his full height and turn on the nearest target.

'I'm sure that a fine officer such as yourself is well aware of Starfleet protocols. As such, you know that I am the Commanding Medical Officer on this ship.' McCoy spat. 'I have responsibility to protect my crew, my staff and my captain. As this is a medical situation, I outrank you in every possible way. I can and will disregard your orders unless you have a reason behind it. Believe me, the fact that you were the one who found Jim is the only reason I haven't ordered you off my ship though the nearest airlock.' He was level with Birkson now, eye to eye and the challenge hanging heavily in the air.

'If you would let me explain, Doctor,' Birkson began, 'you would know that-'

'McCoy.' A Scottish accent barked. 'He's waking up.'

McCoy was at the side of the biobed instantly. He leant over the twitching form, calling his name.

Jim's eyes snapped open, pupils blown so wide they almost consumed the blue irises. His legs lashed out, colliding with McCoy's gut. He grunted, pulled back from the bed and doubled over. Jim rolled off the bed, crouching behind it as a barrier between him and the others.

'Jim!' McCoy wheezed. Birkson started forward and with a primal scream, Jim launched the biobed over.

The resounding crash made all three other men step backwards. Electronics and the steel frame cracked, medical equipment shattered. Thousands of shards of glass spread across the floor, but Jim didn't notice it as he scrambled on his bare feet.

'Jim, stop it!' McCoy called, fumbling with his satchel to prepare a hypospray. 'You're okay, Jim. You're safe.'

Jim didn't hear him, either because he was blocking the noise or the blood rush in his ears drowned him out.

'Jim, what's wrong with you?' McCoy demanded, one hand outstretched while the other loaded a sedative.

Dazed and confused, Jim took the movement to be threatening and launched himself at McCoy. He knocked him to the ground and the hypo clattered on the floor.

Jim grabbed McCoy's forearm and placed the other hand on his shoulder. With a sharp shove, McCoy felt his shoulder pop out of place with a sickening crunch. His arm went limp and Jim snarled.

Jim's head snapped to the side as Scotty shoved the hypospray into his neck. He fought against it for a moment, his limbs moving sluggishly and McCoy suffering a few weak punches. Once the drug had pumped its way around his entire body, Jim slumped forward.

McCoy heaved upwards, dragging Jim with him. His right arm hung limply and his shoulder throbbed with sharp pain. Scotty moved to help him stand. The long, thin metal bench where medical equipment had been resting was swept clear in Jim's rage. It was hardly even a bunk, but there was no way McCoy would lay him on the cold ground with the bloodstained glass.

'Doctor McCoy.' A voice spoke from the doorway. Spock's locked jaw and narrow eyes betrayed his even voice. His gold uniform stood in stark contrast from his pale skin and sterile Sickbay behind him.

McCoy clutched the bicep of his wounded arm, tucking it close to his body as he moved towards the doorway.

'Clean that up.' He barked an order at the male nurse. 'Get rid of the knife and anything not bolted down.'

With single-minded purpose, McCoy marked past the few people gathered outside the quarantine room. He grabbed a low level pain medication and injected himself.

'Little help?' he muttered, gesturing at his shoulder.

Spock understood and stood behind him, placing both hands on either side of the doctor's shoulder. Without warning, he forced the dislocated joint back into place. McCoy groaned at the sharp pain but felt relieved to be able to move his arm again.

'What happened to him?' Uhura whispered.

Most of the alpha bridge crew were now in Sickbay. Spock gave Sulu the conn while Chekov, Uhura and Spock came down to join McCoy and Scotty.

The wall of the quarantine room was transparent from one side only, so they could clearly see Jim's still form on the bench.

'He attacked me.' McCoy said.

'Me too.' Scotty supplied. 'In the shuttle bay.'

'He's violent and confused.' McCoy said, wincing slightly as he shifted his shoulder.

'He's dangerous.' Birkson said shortly.

All eyes turned to the stranger, regarding him warily.

'That's not who you remember, he's changed. He might not even me human any more.' Birkson continued. 'He's already attacked three senior officers; he severely injured you, Doctor. He should be strapped down and sedated.'

McCoy's voice was hollow and empty as he spoke.

'The treatment and transport of a patient is to be at the discretion of his attending physician.' He recited. 'The CMO is directly responsible for the health and mental well-being of the Captain.'

The last word slipped out easily, feeling right for the first time in months.

McCoy dragged himself forward and rest his head against the cool one-way wall.

'Someone wanna explain how the hell that can happen in three months?' he asked gruffly, hardly expecting an answer.

Chekov shifted his weight nervously, chewing his bottom lip in thought.

Uhura noticed the movement while the other officers' were staring into the quarantine room. She gently placed a hand on the teenagers shoulder.

'Pavel? Is there something you need to say?' she asked softly.

Chekov twitched when attention was drawn to him. 'It is only a theory.' He murmured.

Scotty shrugged. 'Any theory is better than none at all.'

Chekov nodded and led them to one of the screens mounted on the Medical Bay wall.

'I discovered this unusual signal.' Chekov explained, pulling up an image on the display. A high frequency signal jumped in sharp angles, up and down the screen. 'It was nothing, dismissed as a sonar signal from the native fauna. But, ground-level reports from Lieutenant Birkson's exploration team…' he paused, hand hovering above the screen.

'I am sorry, sirs. If I am correct, this will not be pleasant.'

Chekov input instructions while McCoy frowned deeply. The high frequency signal shuddered under the command. It stretched, sharp angles becoming gradual dips. The signal shifted into position and the computer beeped recognition.

_Biological frequency: Captain James Tiberius Kirk_.

Uhura's eyebrows knitted together. 'What did you do, Pavel?'

'Decreased the signal's frequency by a factor of seventy-two.' He explained.

'I don't get it.' Scotty interjected. 'What speeds up a biological frequency?'

Spock tilted his head slightly, examining the scrolling information.

'A time-displacement field.' He realised.

'More specifically, a time-accelerator.' Chekov added. He turned back to the screen and began calling up a three-dimensional map of the planet's surface. 'It is far beyond the planet's civilisation and level of technology.' He rotated the map to reveal rocky mountains. 'The Captain was found here.' He tapped the map and a red dot appeared. 'If my suspicions are correct, the time-acceleration field extends to this area.' Half of the mountain range glowed white, the closest point approximately fifty clicks from the dot. 'Within this area, it appears that time is moving faster than the rest of the universe, at a ratio of one to seventy-two.'

'So, while it was only three months for us…' Scotty started.

'Depending on how long the Captain was within the accelerator,' Spock said, 'he could have experienced up to six years on the planet.'

'Six years.' McCoy repeated hollowly. He moved back to where he could see Jim slowly and groggily waking up.

Chekov swallowed a painful lump that had lodged in his throat and turned to Spock, even more agitated than before.

'Captain Spock, sir.' He said hurriedly. 'There is something more.'

Spock beckoned him to one side, out of earshot from the rest of the crew.

'What is it, Ensign?' he asked.

Chekov fidgeted again, the opposite of the excited energy he bounced with when he made a discovery.

'While I only just discovered the frequency, sir,' he began, 'we received the signal during one of our initial scans of the planet's surface… three months ago.' His brow furrowed and he glanced up guiltily at the Vulcan. 'We could have found him then, we actually found him, but he was abandoned because I didn't figure it out sooner. I-'

Spock placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and cut him off mid-rant.

'You are not to blame for this situation.' Spock said firmly. 'You are to be congratulated for this discovery that shall aide Captain Kirk's recovery.' He glanced across the bay to the others. 'If his signal was detected three months ago, knowledge of this would be damaging to crew morale. It would be prudent, therefore, to ensure that word of this fact stays confidential.'

'But they'll know, the report-' Chekov began.

'Until such time as Captain Kirk has been cleared for active duty, I am the senior ranking officer on this ship. The reports come to me.' Spock reminded him. 'I am ordering you to change yours.'

Chekov nearly sighed in relief, shoulders slumping. 'Thank you, sir.'

Spock nodded his dismissal and Chekov returned to the bridge.

* * *

Jim woke with a grunt, bleary-eyed against the harsh lights. Metal caged him, surrounding him on all sides. His head swam and his limbs were sluggish.

Jim's hands went to his chest, tracing the ratted gold strip, trying to find his knife. It was gone. He was defenceless.

He stood shakily, then launched, colliding with the steel wall. He knew they were there, watching him just out of sight.

He needed to send them a message.

He wasn't going down without a fight.

* * *

McCoy felt bile rise in his throat as he watched his best friend throw himself against the wall in a fit of animalistic fury. Jim rammed into the wall, again and again, unknowingly attacking close to McCoy on the other side of the wall.

Jim scratched at the floor, pulled at the bunk, one of the bolts loosening. He punched the wall, knuckles and fingernails breaking and fingers becoming a bloodied mess. Jim howled at the pain, but continued pounding the steel until a dent began to form.

McCoy couldn't stand it any more when he saw old wounds open across his back, ugly red and purple gashes among the scars. He checked his satchel, removing everything but the tricorder and dermal regenerator.

Scotty saw the fury flash in McCoy's eyes and tried to hold him back.

'Doctor, he's dangerous.' Scotty warned.

'I don't give a damn.' McCoy growled. 'He's my best friend, I need –I need to know he's okay.'

He keyed in the CMO override code and strode in without hesitation.

* * *

**_Wow, this one turned out a lot longer than I expected! Well, it took more time but you get more story. Sounds about right!_**

**_Some interesting developments in this chapter. What do you think of the crew's interactions? The realisation that Jim could have been spared all this? Exactly how far gone is Jim? How did you like Chapel and McCoy verbally beating Birkson down? Spock's willingness to go against protocol to protect his crew?_**

**_Please review!_**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Jim wasn't okay. McCoy could see this in the hunch of his back, the outline of bones under thin skin, wild hair and thick beard. He was curled up in the furthest corner from the door, bare back scraping against the ripped apart bench. His fingers were a bloodied mess, curled up into his chest, cradled there as broken bones and ripped fingernails bled profusely.

'Jim.' McCoy said, breaking the silence. If possible, Jim pressed even further against the wall. 'Jim, you're okay now. You're safe.'

Jim turned his face away, pressing it into the wall. His shaggy hair fell in a mess to his shoulders, browner than McCoy remembered it.

McCoy slowly lowered himself into a crouch, still a distance away from the frightened man. Jim spun his head around, darting eyes watching the movement.

For a moment, McCoy was able to forget the last three months of worry. The man in front of him was almost unrecognisable, merely a confused, wounded patient. He could almost pretend this was some native the Captain had ordered to be healed.

If it wasn't for those _eyes_.

''Do you know who I am, Jim?'

The question was meant to be a prompt, meant to spark some long buried memory, but there was no flicker of hope on the other man's face and the question hung flat and lifeless in the air.

'Do you recognise me at all, Jim?' McCoy asked, shifting forward. His tone was bordering on desperate.

'Can you even understand me?'

Jim buried his face into his arms, showing no recognition other than tensing at his presence, as if he was bracing for another fight.

McCoy moved closer, opening his satchel for his dermal regenerator.

'Here. Let me help.' McCoy said, stretching out a hand to touch him on the shoulder.

Jim reacted. Violently. A low growl resounded from the pit of his stomach. He lashed out in a fury of attacking limbs. His wounded fist smashed into McCoy's jaw and he stumbled backwards, clutching his face.

Jim let out a howl of pain and collapsed against the opposite wall. The distance between them felt tangible. McCoy examined the shell of a man for a moment.

He had become animalistic, wild, but something had changed in the few minutes since their last encounter. Before, the blows had landed with accuracy and determination, enough force to dislocate McCoy's shoulder with a shove.

No, Jim was confused and terrified. He drew sharp harsh breaths like he was expecting the oxygen to be snatched from him. At times, his movements became so frantic as he pressed into the corner McCoy thought he was trying to scramble up the wall itself and take refuge on the ceiling.

Jim glared at him in hatred as if it was McCoy's fault he was in pain. That is, McCoy realised with a chill, exactly was he was used to.

'That looks like it hurts.' McCoy said gruffly.

Jim bared his teeth at the voice.

'Let me help.' McCoy urged. He pulled out the dermal regenerator and noticed Jim's narrowing eyes. 'It's alright. Watch.'

McCoy reached over to the serrated edge of the ripped metal bench. Wincing, he slid his thumb against it, blood trickling into his palm.

Holding his arm outstretched, he brought the regenerator to his wounded thumb. The flesh healed quickly and Jim's eyes widened.

'Here. Let me.'

Hesitantly, Jim let his wounded hand fall to the side, away from his body. Every wiry muscle tensed as McCoy took the movement for an invitation to move closer. The muscles in his back strained and shivered while McCoy gently lifted the wounded hand.

The touch of skin on skin looked like agony for Jim. His face contorted in pain and a pitiful whimper escaped his throat.

Watching that had been the worst. If Jim had been expecting pain, McCoy could have dealt with it, but to experience pain when it wasn't there… that took years of conditioning.

McCoy ran the dermal regenerator across the broken, bloodied knuckles and began to bind the worst fingers straight. His eyes locked onto the only remains of the gold command shirt.

A thin scrap of material hung diagonally across his chest, no doubt torn from the hem. The other piece bore three silver bands encircling the ring of gold, denoting the rank of Captain. The insignia was supposed to fit snugly against his wrist; instead, it was pushed up over his bony elbow to the bicep of his too-thin arm.

'Jim? I need you to look at me, Jim.' McCoy said, ducking his head to catch the frightened man's eyes. He tried not to think about how true those words were. He _needs_ this, damnit.

Finally, Jim's eyes found his face, but there was no trace of recognition there. He looked at McCoy, but he didn't see him.

'How long has it been since you ate?'

Jim's face didn't even register the question and he made no movement to answer it. McCoy was beginning to seriously doubt he could.

Then he was reminded of the wounded screams, proving that Jim did interact with his surroundings, he was just frightened and angry.

The fingers had healed as much as McCoy could help, so he bound it with gauze and let go. Jim snapped his hand back, pressing it into his chest.

'I'm going to get you some food.' McCoy informed him, scuffling backwards before standing up so his height wouldn't frighten him.

He couldn't help himself, he needed to provide some sort of physical comfort for his friend.

'I'm going to take care of you.' McCoy promised. A hand reached out instinctively.

Jim recoiled instantly, whimpering. He scrambled in the feeble attempt to climb away. Blood seeped from the nicks and scratches all over his feet from the nicks and scratches all over his feet from the shattered glass. A large gash by the arch of his foot still had a shard lodged in it.

'Damnit.' McCoy muttered, dropping back to a crouch.

To his right lay a set of surgical forceps and he reached for them quickly. As Jim jerked, the shard sunk further into his flesh, threatening to severely damage a central vein.

'Stay still.' McCoy ordered, gripping Jim's ankle tightly.

Jim howled and tried to jerk free of McCoy's firm hold.

'This is going to hurt a little.' McCoy warned before he dug the forceps into the gash. With surgical precision, the glass shard was extracted in moments but Jim was in anguish, tears streaming down his face and heaving great, panicked breaths. McCoy would prefer to spend more time mending the wounds, but he was afraid he'd never be able to get close to him again after this.

'Jim?'

The terrified man flinched violently, this time from his voice and not his presence. Then, for the first time since he arrived, Jim spoke, in clear understandable Standard.

'James.' He said.

McCoy froze, hope beginning to rise.

'James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_.' Jim said, his voice was dull and flat but such a comfort to hear after so long without. 'Serial number N dash Delta 17676-0981,' he swallowed and continued, '3944.'

Then he repeated it, again and again, like it was his lifeline.

'James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. N dash Delta 17676-0981-5433.'

It became endless litany of name, rank and serial number, falling from Jim's lips in a steady stream of words blending together.

_Two years earlier, the same Medical Bay had been torn apart by explosions during the Narada incident. The prematurely promoted Chief Medical Officer just finished twelve hours of delicate surgery removing the parasitic bug from Captain Pike's spinal cord. He collapsed into an exhausted heap of stained scrubs and scratchy stubble beside the Captain's bed._

_Pike woke slowly, mind still fogged by the surgical drugs. He groaned out his name, rank and serial number._

_McCoy asked him about it and Pike's eyes glazed over._

_'When they're torturing you, you need something to scream.'_

Jim, shuddering and helpless, pressed against the wall.

'James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. N dash Delta 17676-0981-5433.'

* * *

_**Thanks heaps to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Your support is so amazing, I couldn't write the same without it.**_

**_What did you think of this chapter? Please review, it really ups the ante for me. Any comments, critisisms and ideas are all appreciated._**


	5. Chapter 5

McCoy left the quarantine room and collapsed against the wall. He rubbed a hand across his tired face, scratching through the sharp stubble. He hadn't really taken care of himself these last three months.

Six years. While he had been nursing a cold bourbon and trying to find loopholes in the missing persons protocol, Jim had been alive and fighting on that planet, suffering God-knows what for six long years. Jim was almost as old as him, now, and surived so much more.

Uhura approached him, confident as ever, but still wary. She'd watched their whole interaction through the one way wall. She placed a caring hand on his shoulder.

'I'll get him something to eat.' She assured him.

McCoy nodded gratefully. 'Something soft, I don't know what his stomach can take right now. Just a plate of mashed potatoes.'

'Okay.' Uhura squeezed his shoulder and moved to walk out of Medical.

'Uhura.' McCoy called after her. 'Make sure the plate is unbreakable.'

She nodded and left and Captain Spock took her place in front of McCoy. One arched eyebrow indicated he was waiting for a report.

'He didn't recognize me, Spock.' McCoy said through gritted teeth. 'He still thinks he's being tortured.'

'Have we given him any reason to believe otherwise?' Spock asked. 'Within the past few hours, he has been captured, stunned, drugged and locked in a quarantine room.'

'You think I haven't realised that?' McCoy demanded angrily. 'You got any bright ideas? We don't exactly have a lot of options here.'

'At this stage, should not assuring the captain of his safety be of first priority?' Spock suggested.

'You can try.' McCoy scoffed. 'He won't believe you.'

Spock's head inclined at a slight angle.

McCoy sighed and motioned for the Acting Captain to follow. The wall that looked into the quarantine room went unnoticed by the occupant inside. In the minutes since McCoy left, Jim had dragged himself into the furthest possible corner from the door. Now, he was pressed into the wall in front of them, his lips moving rapidly as he murmured.

'You see that?' McCoy demanded.

'I am not able to lip read.' Spock informed him.

McCoy keyed his access code into the panel in the wall. The audio activated and Jim's hushed voice could be heard in an endless stream of litany of name, rank and serial number.

'_James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise. N dash Delta 17676-0981-5433.'_

'That's a coping mechanism.' McCoy said. 'Admiral Pike used the same on board the _Nerada_. It's a good default. While being tortured for information, the only way some officers don't give in is to scream that-' McCoy tapped the transparent wall near Jim's head, 'until it's the only thing left in their minds. Hell, the tactic dates back to the First World War.'

'But he is still self-aware.' Spock countered. 'He recalls this information, which implies his memory is still intact.'

'You think he's remembering these facts?' McCoy challenged. 'Just look at him for a moment, damn it. Really look. How can you possibly think he's anything but trapped in his mind?'

Jim pressed a hand into the glass, the insignia on the tattered cuff coming into view. Spock glanced down at his hands clasped in front of him, his borrowed rank embroidered in silver.

'If there is a chance, I need to have the confidence that we will find it.' Spock said simply. He turned his eyes to the doctor. 'Don't you?'

McCoy didn't answer. At this point, he couldn't think of the broken man as anything other than his patient. He didn't want to draw the connection between his best friend the Captain and the shell of a man in front of him.

'Doctor.' Uhura said, holding out a plate of white mashed potatoes.

'Thank you.' McCoy nodded and took the plate from her. Uhura stood beside Spock, her hand resting lightly on his back as McCoy moved off.

'It breaks my heart to see him like this, Spock.' She admitted quietly.

'Are you aware of coping mechanisms such as this?' he asked. Uhura nodded and he continued. 'I am… concerned. I had not anticipated that he would return in this state.'

'None of us were.' Uhura said firmly. 'It's only been three months.'

'For us, perhaps.' Spock acknowledged. He paused, eyebrows twitching in an almost-frown. 'I should have done more.'

'You couldn't have known.' Uhura protested.

'The information leading to his rescue was available. I was responsible and I failed to act. I should have done more.' Spock said succinctly. His gaze turned to the cowering form of the Captain before them

It was the strongest admission of guilt she'd ever heard from him. Spock had never blamed himself for the destruction of his home planet or the loss of his mother. These tragedies he had been able to rationalise as being responsible for a number of factors.

He couldn't relieve the guilt now, and Uhura found she didn't have the words to consol him.

* * *

The tray almost slipped in McCoy's hand while he prepared himself to enter the small room. For the first time in his life, he wished he had a shred of Vulcan training so he could approach this situation with a sense of detachment.

But he didn't, so he couldn't. Instead, he keyed in his access code and walked into the room.

'I brought you something to eat.'

'James Tiberius Kirk.'

'You should eat slowly though.'

'Captain of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_.'

'I don't want to disturb your stomach, just yet.'

'N dash Delta 17676-0981-5433.'

McCoy sank down into a crouch and placed the plate of mashed potato between them.

'It's good, see?' McCoy scooped some of the white mush onto his finger and swallowed it down. He held back a grimace and shrugged. 'So it needs salt, it's better than nothing.' He nudged the tray towards Jim. 'Go on. Eat.'

Jim eyed first McCoy, then the plate, warily. Perhaps it was the bland colours, or maybe he was just hungry, but regardless of McCoy's presence and the threat of poison, Jim shuffled forward and snatched the plate from the floor.

He shovelled it down hungrily, using both hands, he practically inhaled the mashed potatoes. Absorbed in his task, Jim ate like he expected the food to be snatched from him at any moment.

McCoy's instinct was to order him to slow down, but one glance at the desperation in the clear blue eyes halted him before he spoke. It was too much when McCoy realised the low mumbling he could hear was Jim vainly attempting to wolf down the food and choke out his mantra at the same time.

Jim swallowed thickly. '0981-5432.' He groaned, hands still moving, full of mush.

McCoy frowned, the feeling that something was wrong tingling up his spine. A knot clenched in his stomach.

'The numbers have changed.' McCoy realised softly. He edged away to a distance where he could stand up without frightening the other man and pressed the comm on the wall.

'Sickbay to Bridge.'

'_Yes, Doctor?'_ the heavily accented voice of Ensign Chekov said.

'Pull up Captain Kirk's file. I want you to read me his serial number.'

'_Yes, sir.'_ Confusion tinted the reply, but Chekov obeyed. A moment's pause before Chekov spoke again. _'Captain James T. Kirk. Serial number: N dash Delta 17676-0980-000.'_

'Repeat the last sequence.'

'_000. Indicating religion, blood type and planet of origin, as is standard.'_

McCoy shut off the link and sighed heavily.

'I should have noticed.' He berated himself, keying the door to open and leaving Jim with the meagre meal.

'I take it you were listening. 15432.' McCoy announced, causing Spock and Uhura to tense.

'What is your meaning, Doctor?' Spock asked.

'The serial number Jim's been repeating, it's not his number.' McCoy explained. 'It means something, something important.'

'How have you reached this conclusion?' Spock asked.

'He doesn't believe in no-win situations.' McCoy stated. 'Even if he thought there was no hope, he'd find a way to beat them.'

'Doctor.' Spock prompted.

'I think it's a code. The last five digits have changed; I think we were supposed to notice it. Jim must have known that the only way to get a message out to us was to convince himself that was his serial number.'

If Spock noticed the slightly hysterical edge to McCoy's voice, he didn't comment on it. Spock keyed the computer panel and spoke to the bridge.

'Mr. Chekov, run all references and possibility for the origin of the following sequence of numbers: 15432.'

'Give us everything.' McCoy added. 'Coordinates, dates… hell, if they were winning lottery numbers a hundred years ago, I want to know about it.'

Uhura felt relief surge through her at the news.

'He's not gone.' She said quietly.

'But he still believes he's being tortured.' McCoy added bitterly.

Spock considered carefully before answering.

'Perhaps I may be of assistance.' He suggested. 'Through touch-telepathy, I may be able to ascertain the extent of the damage-'

'Aw, hell no. You're _not_ gonna meld with him.' McCoy yelled over the top of him.

'-and assist in reassurances.' Spock continued. 'Doctor McCoy-'

'He's gone through enough without you messing around in his head.'

'Emotional security-'

'-What the hell do you know about emotional security?' McCoy challenged.

'Enough.' Uhura said firmly, standing between them and placed a hand on each of their chests. 'I expected more from you, Spock.' She said then turned to McCoy and took his head between both hands. 'Len. We need to get through to him somehow. Spock can help.'

McCoy instantly railed, but she sternly calmed him.

'He won't meld.' Uhura assured him, with a pointed glance in Spock's direction. 'But his surface thoughts might be enough to sooth him.'

McCoy's glare almost bore holes in the ground.

'You owe him that much.'

McCoy relented and stepped back to allow Spock to pass him.

'Just-' he started, then hung his head. 'Try and figure out what 15432 means.'

Spock nodded, standing at the entrance to the quarantine room. He tapped on the consol and with one smooth movement, was inside, alone with his Captain.

'…0981-5432.'

* * *

_**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter! You really helped me get this chapter out of me, even when school is making me stress out. Expect updates to be a little scattered now, I'm finding less time to write.**_

**_So what were thoughts on this chapter? More McCoy and Jim interaction, insight into the mantra, set up for Spock to come face to face with Jim and a little puzzle. Part of me wants to challenge you to telling me what the numbers mean, but the other part fears you'll invent better answers than the one I have. Tee hee._**

**_Please review!_**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

When Spock entered the small room, nothing changed. Jim still repeated his mantra, curled barefoot and shivering into the corner. Slowly, carefully, Spock made his way to the centre of the room and lowered himself to the ground. His legs stayed together as they folded underneath him. He knelt and sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees in the standard Vulcan meditation position.

Spock closed his eyes and waited.

Twenty minutes passed and neither man moved.

Spock counted the seconds, his own breaths and the repetitions muttered by Jim.

Another thirty minutes crawled by and finally Jim's litany stuttered. The hollow man's breath was harsh and rough like the rest of him. There were several long moments where Jim just stared at the stranger in the room, silent and still. He shifted slowly and Spock waited for a moment before sliding his eyes open.

_Crack_

The fist connected solidly with his jaw, sending Spock bodily to the ground. Jim crawled on top of him and gripped Spock's short hair in one hand.

_Crack_

Jim pummelled punch after punch into Spock's face, until his knuckles became bloody and Spock's lip bust. But Spock never fought back, merely allowing Jim to repeatedly take out his frustration and anger and fear on him. With every connection, Spock radiated every ounce of warmth and affection and safety he'd accumulated for Jim over the past two years. Eventually, Jim slumped forward and rolled off him, panting against the wall.

With slow, careful movements, Spock resumed his meditation pose, this time keeping his eyes open and watched Jim.

Jim glared at him from across the small room, anger and violence thinly shielding the fear and confusion in his eyes. His face crumpled in desperate confusion.

Still defensive, Jim paced in front of Spock on all fours. He was like a caged wild animal, facing a new trainer, stubbornly holding on to its feral habits. He was visibly unsettled by the brief telepathic contact he experienced, the natural need to hold on to comfort waring with the instinct to defend and attack.

Cautiously, Jim approached, limbs sticking out at sharp angles as he crouched low to the ground. Spock's dark eyes followed his movements. Jim curled into himself nearby, tense muscles thrumming with hyper-aware anxiety.

A tentative hand brushed Spock's sleeve, along the silver bands declaring his rank. The gold thread of Spock's shirt caught on the rough calluses on Jim's palm.

The crouched man gasped quietly and scrambled back slightly, his hand clawing up his own arm, leaving dark red gouges from his fingernails. The tattered and faded gold cuff that had been shoved onto Jim's bicep was slowly dragged down his too-thin arm. Jim crumpled it into his hands and held it close to his chest. He edged closer, shuffling with his arms and legs across the floor.

He stopped surprisingly close to Spock and leaned in as if he was about to share a secret. The half-Vulcan was careful to not move closer or further away while Jim lowered his hands into his lap. His legs were at uncomfortable-looking angles as his feet were pressed together, sole to sole in front of him. The gold material was wrung and tugged between his hands for several long minutes.

Finally, Jim bent down and spread the cuff on the floor between them, laying it flat and straightening it. The silver insignia was worn thin and stained with something that looked like blood.

Jim looked up at him expectantly. Spock did not move and Jim flared up in anger. He beat the ground with force, growling deeply. Again, he crumpled the cuff in his hands and brought it to his chest before lowering it and spread it on the floor.

When Spock did nothing, Jim repeated the motion, staring intently and with desperation.

Spock finally understood and carefully ripped the wristband from his own gold uniform sleeve. He pressed it to his chest and then laid it on the floor beside Jim's. The new cuff seemed to shine with brightness beside its dull and tattered counterpart.

Jim looked up at him with urgency and hit the ground with one closed fist again.

'James Tiberius Kirk.' He recited, pounding the ground. 'James Tiberius Kirk.'

Spock hesitated for a long moment. He leant forward and touched his own cuff.

'Spock.'

For a second, Spock was concerned he'd misinterpreted the rudimentary communication, until Jim shifted so he sat in the same position as Spock, sitting back on his heels with his legs folded underneath him.

'Spock.' He echoed, mimicking the other man's movement and vocal inflection. He fell from the meditation position and scrambled for his own cuff, quickly shoving it up his arm for safekeeping. 'James Tiberius Kirk.'

Spock repeated the motion and spoke his own name. It seemed he had taken part in some rudimentary initiation ceremony, but when he looked again at Jim's open face, he realised the truth.

It was an introduction.

Jim resumed his previous position, curled into the corner and muttering his litany, but he wasn't fearful or defensive any more. Jim had accepted Spock's presence, but was attempting to keep separate.

'James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. N dash Delta 17676-0981-'

'15432.' Spock finished.

Jim's head jerked up and levelled a steady stared at him. Spock repeated the sequence again, allowing some confusion to creep into his voice to indicate a question. Recognition brightened Jim's eyes and he nodded understanding. He crawled forward to sit directly in front of the half-Vulcan.

'15432.' He said earnestly, then he performed several strange actions.

Jim cupped a hand and brought it to his mouth twice, then laced his fingers together and pushed them down into the ground twice. He looked up at Spock as if to gauge his reaction. When Spock gave none, Jim dragged a finger along a particularly ragged scar on his shoulder, laced his fingers again and lifted them in one sharp movement.

Cautiously, Spock began to mimic the actions but Jim gripped his wrists and tugged his hands down. There was no hostility in his face, just frustration at being misunderstood. Jim scrambled backwards and grabbed the empty plate from the corner.

He held it between them, tapped the plate once and brought the same hand to Spock's mouth.

Psychically, Spock was still radiating warmth and safety, and Jim reeled back when he touched Spock's skin. His expression shifted, from irritation to wonder. The plate clattered to the ground, forgotten. Jim shuffled closer and pressed his hand to Spock's cheek. His eyes lost focus and drifted down and to the side, like a blind man mapping a stranger's face.

Ragged fingernails scraped lightly against his jaw and cheek, scratching feint marks into the smooth skin. Jim's other hand rubbed at his own cheek, tugging at the coarse hairs of his beard. Both hands travelled upwards, following the same path until they reached the top of each man's head. Spock's immaculate cap of hair was a strong contrast to Jim's long, ragged, tangled mane.

Jim gasped and pulled sharply on his own hair, several strands breaking around his fingers. His attention shifted to the snapped hairs. Almost as if out of habit, Jim pulled and untangled each hair and laid it on the floor.

* * *

McCoy watched the entire interaction, slumped in a chair outside the observation room for the past hour. He huffed a laugh when Jim touched Spock's face as well as his own. He must have been captivated by the psychic presence with every touch to smooth skin.

Jim's expression changed when he tugged at his own hair, almost with disgust and irritation.

'Of all the vain things to bring him back.' McCoy muttered.

Jim seemed totally occupied with the new task of untangling the broken strands. Now he was focussed on ordering them by length. McCoy took the opportunity to tap on the intercom to the small room.

'I think I understood some of that.' He said, deliberately keeping the volume very low.

A small inclination of Spock's head on the other side of the glass indicated he was listening to McCoy's guess.

'He's trying to be the same as you, looking for similarities. Mimicry is the most basic form of communication.'

'And what is Jim attempting to communicate now?' Spock asked quietly, watching the other man for any change away from his current obsession.

'He wants a shave.' A slow grin spread across McCoy's face. 'Jim always hated stubble, even back at the Academy. He couldn't stand it. He knows it feels wrong.'

'You are certain of this?' Spock clarified.

'It's worth a shot.'

'Now that he is aware of his environment, it is likely that the Captain will react negatively to your presence.' Spock said.

'Well, I'll just have to be reintroduced then, wont I?'

A smile tugged at McCoy's lips as he watched.

'You seem pleased.' Spock noted, hyperaware of emotions even when he never expressed them himself.

'He's communicating, Spock.' McCoy said, something akin to reverence in his voice. 'Jim's in there somewhere.'

His forehead pressed against the glass, the smile spreading across his face.

'He's still alive.'

* * *

_**Wow, this one took an embarrassingly long time to pump out, for that I apologize. Unfortunately, long stretches between updates are going to be the norm nowadays, but they definitely will come! No word as of yet of the meaning of the numbers, unless you can decode Jim's unusual movements.**_

_**Please review! This chapter was a little test of my descriptive skills and I want to know how I went. I know it ended fast and weirdly, but I wanted it finished and out there!**_

_**Any hints on what shaving devices they use in the future would be greatly appreciated! Otherwise, I'm just gonna role with a razor.**_

_**Next chapter: The great re-introduction, and how Jim reacts to a blade being taken to his face.**_


	7. Chapter 7

With very brief communications, McCoy prepared to enter the small room. He carried his medical satchel, as well as the equipment for a shave and to cut Jim's hair. It included a laser-based razor, programmed not to damage anything other than hair. He had also taken a laser scalpel to the cuff of his own shirt, partially cutting the wristband off in preparation for the expected introduction.

The door hissed open behind him, and before Spock could turn his head to see the McCoy, Jim knocked him to the side.

Growling low in his gut, Jim planted himself firmly between the intruder and the man who shared his stripes. Prepared and willing to lash out at the slightest movement, Jim shielded his new prison-mate with his body, the growl turning vicious. The man was in blue, and Jim recognised it as different, as bad.

'Doctor McCoy.' Spock cautioned, his voice making Jim flinch and blink rapidly. 'Do no move. Follow my instructions to the letter.'

'What pissed him off?' McCoy demanded, angrily but quietly.

'The Captain has taken a protective role over me, as he believes I am a fellow prisoner.' Spock explained.

Jim hissed and bared his teeth, snarling at McCoy as he shifted his weight into an attack stance.

'So much for convincing him he's free.' McCoy muttered.

'Kneel in this position, Doctor.' Spock instructed, resuming the meditation position he had been knocked from.

'My knees ain't-'

'Doctor McCoy.' Spock interrupted.

McCoy sighed under his breath and held Jim's feral gaze as he slid to the floor. After a little balancing, McCoy settled, legs folded underneath him.

'Now what?' he murmured.

Spock didn't need to answer because Jim started to move. The growl caught in his throat as he scurried backwards, almost colliding with Spock. Confused, he protectively crouched close to Spock's form.

'You were the one who brought food and administered painful medical treatment.' Spock said. 'A logical deduction for the Captain is that you his captor. We must secure your status as a fellow prisoner.'

'You were supposed to convince him he was free, damn it.' McCoy growled. Jim flinched at the sound, meeting it with his own rumble from the back of his throat.

'I believe that assurance will have to develop over time.' Spock said.

Jim moved closer to McCoy, assessing him with confidence he didn't posses before. He shoved at him, asserting dominance by a rough push of the doctor's shoulder and a tight grip in his hair.

'Jim.' McCoy said, as the painful grip tightened.

With a victorious growl, Jim knocked McCoy to the down, sprawling facedown on the floor. He sharply pinned him with a heavy knee between his shoulder blades, one hand forcing the doctor's head into the floor. With the other hand, Jim grabbed the thrashing arm and held it straight behind him in a deadly grip. McCoy's already damaged shoulder protested violently under the stress. Jim's wild eyes were unfocused as McCoy tried to escape, until Spock stopped him.

The Vulcan laid a hand over Jim's grip on McCoy's wrist, projecting trust and security through the brief psychic connection. He carefully peeled Jim's fingers away from the wrist and tapped the silver stripes on the blue band.

Jim scrambled backwards, releasing his hold. McCoy gasped and groaned, slowly struggling his way onto hands and knees. Jim took hold of one of McCoy's arms and tugged at the blue uniform sleeve. The cuff came away easily, only a few threads vainly holding on and unwinding.

Jim pressed the cuff to the ground and examined it for several minutes while McCoy got his breath back. Suddenly, Jim launched towards McCoy and the doctor recoiled instinctively, still grunting in pain, but Jim merely shook his fist in McCoy's face, the cuff scrunched under thin fingers. He slammed it down with a resounding smack and stalked away to the furthest corner, staring at him defiantly.

McCoy struggled back to the kneeling position and faced the apparent dominate power in the small room. Jim was a born leader, destined to be captain from the moment of his father's death. He radiated control and demanded trust, even half-naked and scarred. McCoy wasn't sure if this power dynamic would be detrimental to Jim's healing. He was always a fierce protector of those he was leading, especially his friends and the weak. Too many nights at the Academy were spent running a dermal regenerator across a broken nose and bloodied knuckles, split at the defence of someone's honour.

'Spock.' The voice from the side startled McCoy slightly, who had forgotten the half-Vulcan was in the room. Spock was leaning forward, fingers touching his gold cuff on the floor. Begrudgingly, Jim tapped his own cuff on his bicep.

'James Tiberius Kirk.'

McCoy straightened his cuff on the floor and was momentarily panicked that the difference of the ranking stripes and the science-blue background would make Jim deny the introduction. He touched the cuff and opened his mouth to speak his name.

His voice caught in his throat and the various names he went by flicked through his mind.

'Bones.' He choked out, the first time he'd heard the word in over two months. 'Bones.'

Jim merely glared at him, 'Bones.' he parroted, without any original inflection.

Stillness settled awkwardly in the room, Jim obviously uncomfortable with the truce. Neither party moved for several long minutes. McCoy's mind wandered, cataloguing the injuries he could see on Jim and entertaining the idea of running a full-body scan to properly assess him.

Absentmindedly, McCoy reached up a hand to scratch at the coarse stubble on his jaw.

Jim leapt forward, graceful and lethal, to grip McCoy's hair and yank his unresisting head back, baring the vulnerable throat. McCoy's Adam's apple bobbed under the dark beginnings of a beard as he swallowed nervously. Jim tracked the movement and slowly brought his free hand up to encircle McCoy's neck.

As his potentially lethal hold tightened, McCoy could only think of his daughter, Joanna. When his girl was only a baby, she went through the usual stage of pulling on anything in her reach. His ex-wife's ears were left tender after Joanna discovered her hanging earrings, and long hair never stood a chance. He remembered consoling Jocelyn and saying their daughter didn't understand that pulling caused pain.

Jim's grip became firmer on his throat, pressing tightening and limiting breathing. McCoy wondered if the same principle applied, if Jim had regressed so far that he lost understanding of other people's pain.

By now, Jim's hold was unyielding and bordered on constricting. He dragged his hand upwards, feeling the scratch of sharp stubbled against his calloused palm. It came to rest on McCoy's cheek, and he picked up one of the doctor's hands and placed it on the rough beard of Jim's own cheek. They were mirror images, as though each one had reached through the glass to touch a ghost.

The touch lacked the tenderness and curiosity of the similar moment shared between Jim and Spock. This time it was desperate and furious.

'I can help with that beard.' McCoy spoke quietly.

In response, Jim dug ragged fingernails into McCoy's flesh.

'Spock, hand me the razor.'

The movement hardly alerted Jim, who held onto the doctor's face with fierce determination.

'Look, Jim, look. It's alright, see?' McCoy continued a mantra of soothing words as he brought the laser razor to the base of his own neck.

'It's okay, Jim. I need you to watch, can you do that for me?'

McCoy dragged the razor upwards, leaving soft skin in its wake. Jim gasped quietly and the sound was so normal, so human, that it gutted McCoy to the core.

The hollow captain dragged the pads of his fingers across the newly exposed skin. The curious hand was returned to his lap and he waited, clear blue eyes meeting his, expectant.

Encouraged, McCoy shaved another strip on his neck, running up to the line of his jaw. As soon as the movement was finished, Jim reverently skimmed the area the razor had just touched. The pattern continued, shaving and touching, until McCoy's whole face was fresh and smooth, the warm trail of calloused fingertips brushing across his skin. He felt clean and new, a different man with different flesh and a different life, back to being a cadet among younger students and a brash best friend. Jim was difficult to gauge, flipping from one emotion to the next so fast it was impossible to predict what his next reaction would be.

From all the distrust and violent outbursts from mere minutes before, McCoy never expected Jim to sit back on his haunches, eyes closed and waiting patiently. It suddenly occurred to McCoy that every other action he had control over since he arrived was a case of "monkey see, monkey do". From the healing of the dermal regenerator to the simple mashed potatoes, Jim would copy if it was demonstrated for him.

McCoy raised the razor slowly and gently angled Jim's head backwards, exposing the coarse beard of his neck.

'Doctor.' Spock said, his voice low and guarded. 'I do not believe this idea to be wise.'

'For six years he's been tortured and controlled.' McCoy answered darkly. 'I'm not going to deny him the first thing he asks for.'

With that, McCoy took the razor to Jim's throat and began to shave.

* * *

The process was long and tiring. Skilful surgeon hands were always patient and caring, the skin beneath his long fingers didn't suffer a single nick. Jim shifted frequently, twitching at noise or shuddering violently for no discernable reason. Each time he did, McCoy's would stop and his hands would return to his knees, and he would wait until Jim was still and he was sure it was safe to proceed. Twice, Jim backed away on all fours, seeking refuge in the corner of the room behind Spock for several long minutes, before crawling back into position in front of McCoy and allowing him to continue. Both times he did that, Jim stopped and rubbed the newly shaven skin of his face on the shoulder of Spock's gold uniform.

As every strip of coarse beard fell away into a scattered puddle by McCoy's knees, years seemed to vanish from Jim, and he looked more fragile than ever. Sallow skin stretched taunt over thin and hollow cheeks. The sharp lines of his jaw became evident, proof of malnourishment over the years. His vivid eyes burned brighter as new skin was revealed, just as dirty and stained with mud, but somehow fresher.

McCoy was almost finished, angling Jim's head to carefully shave straight, short sideburns, as opposed to the pointed curve of his own style.

'Spock can you bring in a data PADD and a spare uniform? Command track, no rank.' he asked quietly. He intended to stay with Jim in this room for as long as it took and he needed some work to do or a goal in mind in order to keep himself productive between outbursts.

Spock didn't need to answer, he just rose to his feet and walked towards the door. It swooshed open with a small noise and Jim's eyes blinked open. The clear blue eyes were hazy and unfocused for a moment, then they snapped onto Spock's retreating form.

Jim launched himself upwards, screaming and stumbling towards the open door. McCoy was knocked over and Jim ran for the door, frantic, desperate.

'Jim, no!' McCoy called out.

But Jim had seen freedom and he was running for it, with no grace or power, just the sheer, animalistic need to escape.

He failed.

A floor length glass wall separated the intensive ward from the rest of Sickbay, a divider put in place for more than aesthetical reasons. In times of emergency, the wall could either be removed or extended to become an impenetrable barrier. Currently, however, it only served to direct and limit traffic, giving a sense of isolation.

Jim didn't see it, couldn't see it, all he could see was the freedom he had sought for close to a decade.

With a sickening crack, Jim ran into the wall, his head connecting so hard that the whole pane of glass shivered from the force.

Red blood smeared on the wall and Jim collapsed to the ground. He lost consciousness quickly, limbs going slack while blood trickled from a gash on his forehead.

Spock moved swiftly, supporting Jim's head and positioning him safely.

'Jim! Goddamnit.' McCoy swore under his breath and ran to his friend's side.

Shock and defeat was evident in Jim's face, even his still-twitching lips. A tear slipped silently down his face and dripped to the ground. He was resigned, and crushed; McCoy fought the urge to be sick.

'Doctor McCoy.' Spock said quietly.

'Right. Yes.' McCoy snapped. 'Let's get him to the full-body scanner; I want to run a complete test.'

'Of course.' Spock said, gently lifting Jim into his arms and carrying him through Sickbay.

'Let's find out what those bastards did to him.' McCoy muttered.

Still unconscious, Jim's tears burned across his skin.

* * *

**_Wow, this has been ages, hasn't it? Sorry guys, real life got in the way. But this fic is not abandoned! I gave you a long one to make up for it._**

**_Please review! I want to know if anyone is still out there._**

**_So we've had McCoy shaved clean, Jim allowing a weapon to his throat with a strange sort of acceptance and Bones has been introduced! What confused/interested you about Jim's reactions? Yes, I did make him run into a glass wall, I hope that was more poignant than hilarious, because in real life it makes me crack up. Anyone want to make predictions on what those bastards did to him?_**

**_Thanks for reading, please review!_**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

An hour before Jim knocked himself unconscious in Sickbay, Pavel Chekov returned to the Bridge. All eyes discretely focussed on him as the turbo lift opened, the other crewmates on the Bridge attempting to hold the façade of work while desperate for any scrap of information on their lost Captain. Sulu held no such illusion. He leapt from his seat at the helm and pulled Chekov across to Uhura's abandoned work station.

'Did you see him? Is he okay?' Sulu demanded.

Chekov only shook his head, unable to answer.

'He's not okay.' Sulu asked, the statement becoming more real with every expression that flit across Chekov's face

Chekov merely shook his head again and pushed past Sulu to take his seat at the helm. All eyes on the Bridge followed him, and Sulu suddenly became very angry.

'What are you all looking at?' he demanded. 'Get back to work.'

The officers did so, and Sulu took his own seat. Three minutes later, a memo blinked on Chekov's screen.

_H. Sulu: You did see him though, right?_

Chekov shut his eyes firmly, reopened and typed.

_P. Chekov: Yes._

_H. Sulu: What the hell happened down there, Pavel?_

There was a few minutes silence between the terminals, and Sulu had given up on an answer.

_P. Chekov: The Captain is not the same._

The reply came quickly.

_H. Sulu: Is he sick? What is it?_

_P. Chekov: Yes, he's very sick._

Sulu breathed an audible sigh of relief.

_H. Sulu: Don't worry about it. McCoy's got it sorted._

The lie in Chekov's response was detectable even as he typed.

_P. Chekov: I'm sure he has._

* * *

The full-body scan mapped Jim's entire system, detecting the blood flow in each capillary and mapping his neurons. He lay on the scanning biobed with a holographic scan hovering above his body, identical to Jim in every muscle and ligament. McCoy sorted meticulously through the mass of data, expecting to find half-healed wounds, internal bleeding, evidence of torturous surgeries, only…

'Doctor McCoy.'

'Shut it, Spock.'

He searched for heart palpitations, the uniform artificiality of regenerator healed tissue, dental records in case one tooth had knocked free.

Nothing.

But McCoy kept digging, he had to know what they did to his best friend, why he cowered in fear and lashed out in anger. But there was nothing, nothing to suggest Jim had been mistreated beyond a little underfeeding. There were the scars that littered his chest and back, yes, but they were little more than skin-deep, and all evidence pointed to them having been roughly healed in the last few months at most.

'This doesn't make any sense.'

McCoy stepped back from the terminal and rubbed a hand across his face, scratching at the slightly itchy skin of his newly shaved face.

Spock stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers toying with the frayed edge of his sleeve. 'Explain, Doctor.'

'Look, if I hadn't seen him myself, what he's become…' McCoy trailed off, but at Spock's look, forced himself to continue. 'If I was just looking at this data, I would say that he has only been gone for the three months, there's nothing outside of the evidences of basic survival.'

'Perhaps Jim did not spend as much time within the time dilatation field as we thought.' Spock theorised.

'Then what the hell happened to him?' McCoy yelled, turning around driving his foot into the wall.

Spock flinched slightly at the burst of emotion and weighed his words carefully. 'Doctor, I think it is time to consider the option that-'

'No! That's not what happened.' McCoy denied.

'The captain has very little physical injuries, yet his mind is corrupted.'

'We're not going there, Spock, it's not an option.'

Spoke gave him a look that let him know he was being horrifically illogical and placed a hand on the sleeping Jim's arm. 'The consequences of mental violation are disastrous, Doctor McCoy, particularly on a psi-null species such as yours. It is fortunate therefore that I have been highly trained in my psychic abilities.'

'How can you do that?' McCoy bristled.

'To what are you referring?'

'Talk about psychic rape like it doesn't mean a thing.'

'Of everyone on board, I am the most qualified to discuss psychic intrusion, Doctor, and believe me, I do not take this matter lightly.'

McCoy frowned and didn't meet the Vulcan's eyes. 'What would that mean?'

'If Jim has been psychically violated, he will not easily trust, his mind may be fractured.' Spock recited. 'There are literally thousands of possible outcomes.'

'Then narrow the margin.' McCoy demanded.

'That will require significant mental contact with Jim. Perhaps even a meld.' Spock met his eyes. 'Will you give consent on his behalf?'

The question threw McCoy off for a moment.

'I-'

'Doctor McCoy. Will you consent?'

'I can't be the next in a long line of bastards that tortured him. I won't.' McCoy denied.

'Whether you wish it or not, you are responsible for the Captains health and wellbeing.' Spock reminded the doctor. 'And while I cannot force you to make a decision, I must remind you that almost all medical treatments have necessary risks and temporary damages. If performed correctly, this meld could be no different from an exploratory surgery.'

McCoy dug fingers into his hair and turned around. 'Do it.' He hissed through his teeth.

Spock nodded assent and moved towards Jim's unconscious form.

'Wait!' McCoy turned back and grabbed Jim's limp hand, entwining his fingers around his best friend's unresponsive ones. 'He's not going to be doing this alone.'

The smallest flinch was evident around Spock's eyes, as if he had taken personal offence at the statement, but did not contradict him; instead, his voice grew soft.

'This will be as non-invasive as possible.' He said, stepping towards the biobed and unlinking his hands from behind his back.

_It's just a surgery._ McCoy repeated in his mind like a mantra. _Spock's hand is merely the scalpel._

Long fingers spread across Jim's face, fitting onto invisible points.

_Incision._

Spock's eyes fluttered closed and Jim released a soft moan, twitching in his sleep.

_Exploratory surgery. Determining root cause of unexplainable physical symptoms._

Unlike every surgery McCoy had ever been involved in, this one was silent, motionless. Everything was taking place in the space between the two minds and McCoy was deaf and dumb to it all. Long minutes stretched and joined together without a sound other than the biobed's steady beeping and his own ragged breathing.

Finally, Jim let out a choked sigh as Spock pulled his hand away.

_Surgery completed. Results awaiting analysis._

'What is it, what did you find?' McCoy demanded gruffly.

'The numbers.' Spock murmured. 'It was a game. He turned it into a game.'

_Diagnosis: …_

'15432.' McCoy recited.

'It was the score. You were correct, Doctor McCoy. There was no sign of psychic interference. However, there were other mental scars.'

_Diagnosis: Psychological trauma._

McCoy let out a sigh of relief. He was treatable then. Jim was not lost.

Spock finally met his gaze, eyes wide under slanted eyebrows. 'It is much worse than you think, Doctor.' They both turned to their unconscious captain.

'It is likely that recovery may not be possible.'

'I don't want to hear that.'

_Prognosis: Hopeful._

* * *

**_Wow. It's almost been a full year. I'm so sorry! I hate abandoning stories, particularly when I'm so attached to them, but I have so many ideas and demands on my time in real life that I just sort of let them linger and I hate that. I've been so busy with university and life and travels and being published, plus, I have my second-in-a-series manuscript due in like a week._**

**_This one's going out to all the people who got an email notification in their inbox today and went "What the hell is that? I don't remember reading that." and then got this far (again). I love you so much!_**


End file.
